Those who are my friends
the sick
the weak
the dispirited
those who don’t have a place to lie down and die
the old
the children
the single mothers
– the students, not because they are troublemakers –
the peasants because they are humble
the fishermen
because they remind me
of the holy apostles of Christ
those who did not know their father
those who, like me, lost their mother
those condemned to a perpetual queue
in so-called public offices
those humiliated by their own children
those abused by their own spouses
the Araucanian Indians
those who have been overlooked at some time or other
those who can’t even sign their names
the bakers
the gravediggers
my friends are
the dreamers, the idealists who
like Him
surrendered their lives
to the holocaust
for a better world